The Brain, The Heart
by Impossible-StarGirl
Summary: (JohnLock! College/Coffee shop Fic) Their love began in a coffee shop. They just never wanted to admit it was love.[WILL BE DELETED AND RESTARTED SOON]
1. How it Begins

It's only five minutes in the tiny cafe when Sherlock Holmes sees him; He sits in a corner by himself, the fluorescent lights above casting down. His hair is a mess of peppered silver and gold, his deep blue eyes bright as he types frantically on his laptop. The boy seems to cave in on himself, small but strong, posture straight.

Sherlock turns his eyes away to the window by him. Raindrops splatter against the glass, running down. He watches his own reflection in one of the drops, as the drop breaks apart into two, still carrying the distorted reflection of him.

Despite himself, his eyes wander back to the boy in the corner. Sherlock is able to take a better look, deducing the boy's life down in a few seconds time. But his thoughts are shattered when Molly Hooper comes up to his table, setting down his coffee order. "Here you go, Sherlock. I was calling your name for a while, but you didn't seem to notice me-it. You didn't notice it." She bites her lip, turning her face down, a pink blush crawling across.

Sherlock glances up at Molly, nodding unconsciously. "Thank you, Molly."

She stands there for another moment, obviously pondering over something, or perhaps waiting for Sherlock to say more. When he doesn't, turning his attention back to his raindrop reflection, Molly walks away, the squeak of her sneakers against the floor signalling her departure.

Sherlock sighs, taking his coffee in his grasp, bringing it to his lips. He sets it down on the table, reaching down an arm to pick up his bookbag by his feet. It's full, and he grunts as he lifts it onto the table, careful so as to not spill his drink.

The flap comes undone by itself, and Sherlock slips out a book along with his own laptop, opening it. The screen lights up with Sherlock's blog, _The Science of Deduction,_ and Sherlock quickly skims through the forums, filled with bites and remarks of malice, violence, and hate. He ignores them, stopping on one particular comment, made a few minutes ago by an unknown guest, _"This is fantastic!"_

Sherlock stares at the sentence, rereading it over and over again to make sure he's not in a drug induced haze. (He doesn't remember taking any recently, he's been clean for a few weeks now, so he admits it's silly that's what he first believes must be happening)

After rereading it for the thirty ninth time, he concludes the person meant it to be a sarcastic remark disguised as a compliment by a simple exclamation point. Who in their right mind (Like their minds were ever right) would purposely compliment Sherlock Holmes?


	2. Deductions

John Watson stares at the mysterious boy sitting by himself at the window. He's seen the boy around the university campus a few times, but was never able to catch more than a mere glimpse among the throngs of teenagers and few adults.

John watches the boy take a sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his free hand tapping rapidly at the keys of his laptop. A strand of black curly hair falls over his face into one of his eyes, and the boy blows it away annoyed.

John turns his attention back to his own computer screen, staring at the website a friend had recommended to take a glance at.

Well, it was more of, to take a laugh at, but John had liked it. He wasn't entirely sure why people were hating on the writer of the page, _The Science of Deduction._ It was incredibly interesting. And amazing.

John continues to stare at the page, the image burning into his retinas as he tries to consider what to do now.

John flicks his gaze up for a moment, catching the boy's own eyes on him. They both turn away, John looking back to the screen.

New words, whole new paragrahs, stare back at him. John furrows his eyebrows together, unconsciously running a hand through his hair as he starts to read it-

 _"As of now, I sit in a coffee shop, or the popular cafe on 221B Baker Street run by Mrs. Hudson. There's only two people present, besides the baristas, Molly and Lestrade- I think his first name is Gunther, or George, or something- and Mrs. Hudson. Myself, and one boy who I do not know of by name, but have seen wandering aimlessly on campus..."_

John looks up immediately, wondering if _that_ boy was actually the writer of this brilliant page. He looked too young, but then again, never judge a book by it's cover. John continues reading as more words flow forth-

 _"Just by observing this boy for a moment, I can deduce him..."_

John looks up again, catching the boy's gaze. He doesn't turn away, his fingers moving deftly on the keyboard. Just on the edge of his peripheral vision, John can still see more words appearing-

 _"This mystery boy is in his second year of university, judging by the amount of papers and journals piled in his bag and on part of the tabletop. I can also clearly see 'Mr. Anderson, Pysch. 101' written on one of the journals, and I know Anderson, the professor who has a lower I.Q than my shoe, only teaches first and second years, Ms. Donovan taking the third and fourths. I can also see a slight tremor in his hands; most likely from lack of sleep from either homework or partying. Probably homework, considering there's pencil and pen marks marking his left hand, and there surprisingly hasn't been any parties for a day now, and if it was a party, he would be in bed sleeping it off, but he isn't. He's sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by homework. But he isn't doing his homework, easy to tell, because I can see he's on my page..."_

John looks up startled, and flushes when the other boy is already staring, one hand typing furiously-

 _"How do I know? Because behind him is a shiny, reflective wall, and I can see his laptop screen. The screen has, at the top, my page title in a big font, the words I'm typing as of now, are appearing. Another thing, everytime I write something interesting or surprising, he looks up and- Oh look, he just did it again. Also, I reset my reader counter, and it only says one. One person, the boy with me in the coffee shop."_

John glances up again, the words stopping. The other boy smirks, amused, and beckons John over with a nod of his head.

For a reason unknown to John, he obeys, walking over to the mystery boy.


	3. Questions

John had been pondering over various questions as to question the boy with, but, as he pulls out the closest chair, dragging it over to his table, the words are scattered in his mind. The only word John can say is, "Why?"

The boy scoffs, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. "Why, what? Might want to be a bit more exact in your questioning."

John huffs out in annoyance, crossing his legs. "Why, me? Why did you target me to deduce? You had three other people in this cafe to write about. Why did you choose me?"

"You're very repetitive."

"And you're not answering my question."

A pregnant silence falls upon them, both staring at each other in the eyes, willing the other to break the gaze. The boy is the one to break it first, sighing as he leans forward over the table. "You kept looking up at me. It's not like I wouldn't notice, I would have to be a complete moron to not notice- As mentioned before, Mr. Anderson. To be honest, your interest is flattering, but-"

"No no no, no." John cuts in, leaning forward as well, resting his elbows against the table. His hands run across his face, as if John was trying to rub away the embarrassment. If anything, it made it worse. "I'm not gay."

"And I'm Mozart, look-"

"No, I'm serious. I. Am. Not. Gay. Okay?" John looks up at the boy, his cheeks warming when he notices the short distance between them. John stares for a moment, before abruptly leaning back, absentmindedly running a hand through his hair.

The boy stares, his hands coming up just under his chin. John watches, annoyed and slightly intrigued, before he sighs again. "I have more questions, but are you going to answer them or sit there looking mysterious?"

"Mysterious?"

"Yeah...With your cheekbones...And your coat collar turned up." John's words prompt the boy to glance down at his coat, which is indeed turned up. Amusement crosses his face, and John has to resist the urge to walk away from him.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock reaches a hand across to John, who takes it hesitantly, shaking it once before letting go. "I'm John Watson."

Another silence, but this time John can see Sherlock's eyes roam up and down his body once before they rest on his face, making John incredibly uncomfortable, squirming in his seat.

"How exactly did you know my-" John is silenced when Sherlock leans forward, pressing a single finger against his lips. His emerald blue eyes stare into John's, searching for something unknown. Sherlock leans even closer, practically laying across the table, the open laptop and the top of his coffee digging into his shirt.

John pulls away after Sherlock has the idea to move even closer, further shattering John's bubble of personal space. "Wow, okay okay. I said I'm not gay, and I have absolutely no idea why I came here." John stands up, pushing in his chair. He turns to walk away when Sherlock speaks, freezing John's departure.

"You do know how I knew those things- You read my blog. The Science of Deduction. And you knew exactly what I was just doing- And before you speak again, no, not attempting to kiss you. I was _deducing._ "

"Deducing what?"

"You. Was that not obvious? I told you before, be a little more exact in your questioning, it saves me from the headaches."

John sighs, plopping himself back down into the chair. "What did you deduce about me? I thought you already had everything you needed from before."

"I did, but that was more of your life story-which is frankly surprising, considering you look to be the popular type, not the in-between. Right now, I just found out your feelings and thoughts. And I might have tried to experiment other things just for fun."

"What other things? And what were the results overall?"

Sherlock smirks, lifting his coffee, now lukewarm, to his lips. His face contorts into disgust, and he throws the drink away into the nearest trash bin behind him. "You're very curious."

"Well, of course I am, you're a stranger who figured out part of my life, either you're an incredible stalker or just inhumanely smart."

"Inhumanely smart? No, no. You just need to pay attention. You see, but you do not observe, that is the problem. I even gave you evidence, and you read my blog. I assure you, I am not a stalker." Sherlock sits down, shutting the open laptop, pushing it away to the side. John watches him, trying to deduce Sherlock.

After a moment, Sherlock leans forward, his fingers forming a steeple under his chin. "So, what do you have so far, John?"

"How'd you know?"

"You seriously need to stop with the questions, I can feel a storm of headaches brewing in my mind. Just talk please. And quickly."

"Well, uh...You're alone, so either you purposely isolate yourself or others isolate you. But you know the baristas and the owner of the cafe, so you purposely do it to yourself. You..." John trails off, furrowing his eyebrows in frustration. "I don't know!"

Sherlock's lip twitch upwards as if in a smile, and John calms down at the sight. Sherlock grabs his laptop, shoving it in his bag along with a book. "You need some practice, but still pretty good. I mean, you basically missed everything of importance, but that's to be expected the first time. Come back tomorrow, and I'll tutor you."

John straightens up, running another hand through his hair absentmindedly, a confused expression masking his face. "Tutor? Wait, as in a date?"

"John, I must say, I'm flattered by your-"

"I am _not_ gay!"

"John, that doesn't matter. Tomorrow, here, at twelve. Be prepared."

John scoffs, standing up and pushing his chair in, "You're a psychopath if you think I'll meet you here. I don't even know you. For all I know, you could be a criminal mastermind."

Sherlock chuckles, slinging his bag onto his shoulder. "Oh, John, I'm not a criminal mastermind or a psychopath; I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."


	4. Brothers

John sighs, pressing a palm against the cool glass, pushing open the cafe door. The bell placed above rings, and it's loud compared to the quiet calmness of the cafe.

The warm air once trapped inside rushes out to capture him, heating up his freezing body. He had, of course, forgotten his gloves that day, and was too stubborn to walk all the way back to his flat.

One of the baristas, the one who John guesses must be Molly Hooper, glances up at him. She flashes him a quick smile, then returns back to her work, capping a drink and grabbing a straw, walking it over to the only other person in the cafe.

John knows for sure that the other person isn't Sherlock; the figure is a little smaller than him, and there isn't the black Belstaf collared coat, but a crisp grey suit, an umbrella sitting by the side. John glances down at his clothes, starting to feel underdressed in his jumpers.

He walls over to the counter, glancing up at the menu. Molly comes back over to him, sighing in relief. "Hey, John, what would you like?"

"Uh...How do you know my name?"

She grabs her hair, pulling it up into a ponytail, tying it as she speaks. "Oh, Sherlock told me about you yesterday. I'm Molly Hooper, one of Sherlock's friends- Well, technically not his friend. More of, his best... acquaintance..." She trails off, biting her lower lip. A visible pink tint blooms from her neck up to her cheeks.

John arches an eyebrow, confused. "What do you mean 'best acquaintance'?"

"Well. He doesn't have friends. Or not any that I know of. He's my friend, but I'm not his."

John gazes at her, giving her a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry about that. But I'm sure you're his friend."

Molly's blush darkens, her smile widening. She shakes her head, clearing her throat as she gets back to her work. "What would you like, John Watson?"

He smiles, unused to his full name being said, and reaches a hand into his bag. "Just a large creme vanilla frappuchino. That's all, Molly." She nods, turning away for a moment to grab a cup.

John roots around in his bag, taking it off his shoulder when he still can't find his wallet. He holds up a finger to Molly, "Sorry, just, ah, hold on a tick."

He peers into the dark recesses of his bag, flipping past the journals, papers, and a textbook. He finds pens he thought was lost, crumpled gum wrappers left abandoned, but not his wallet. John sighs, slumping, the bag falling to the floor. His palms rest against the counter, and he closes his eyes. "Sorry, Molly, I think I left my wallet at my flat."

"That's okay, I'll pay for it." Sherlock's voice comes from behind John, and John can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

John takes a moment to breathe in deeply, eyes still closed. "I'll wipe that smirk off your face, Sherlock."

"Go ahead." Sherlock says undeterred. He moves by John, pulling out his wallet and paying Molly. "Come on, John. We need to work on your deduction skills."

John drags himself after Sherlock, who takes the table in the corner. He stares at Sherlock, hands clasped together on the table. Sherlock gazes back, eyes completely fixed.

Molly wordlessly slips over, setting down John's drink before disappearing.

John takes a sip, and Sherlock finally leans forward, a grin replacing the blank expression. "So, what have you got, John?"

"Sorry?"

"Deductions! Me! What have you got?! I already know about you, but I'm still a stranger to you, unless you figure it out yourself! Now, speak!"

John takes another sip to stall for more time, taking as long as he can as he sets the cup down. He tries fo recall what he found out last night online, but the only memory that resurfaces is rereading Sherlock's blog for the umpteenth time before dropping off to sleep. "Uh, okay, well...I know you like being alone, but you aren't entirely anti-social; You have Molly, and I'm guessing the other dude you mentioned yesterday, as well as Mrs. Hudson. You're clever, that's easy to deduce from your blog..." John trails off, leaning back in his chair. "That's all I got."

Sherlock's lips twitch upwards again. He reaches a hand over, prying the coffee from John's grip. "Might want to stay away from this for a while. Messing up your sleep schedule, easy to tell from the faint bags under your eyes and the tremor in your hand has become more noticeable. The coffee isn't helping you, it's just giving you a bigger crash, and you're trying to fight it, but failing. Also, I can tell you're going out somewhere after this because there's a bit of product still left completely visible in your hair, although I don't know why you even use product, considering you constantly run your hands though and mess it all up."

Sherlock forms a steeple under his chin again, leaning his elbows on the table. John stares at him, an unbelieving grin on his face. "Amazing!"

"Oh. Well...Most people don't say that."

"What do they say?"

"Piss off." They both laugh at that, Sherlock shaking his head. Despite his deduction, John slips a hand past Sherlock, picking up his coffee and taking a drink. John flashes an innocent smile at Sherlock when a glare is thrown his way.

"Already buying coffee for another, Sherlock? You never learn, do you?" A voice comes from behind John. Both turn their attention to the man in the grey suit, an umbrella held in one hand, a smug smile plastering his face.

"Shut up." Sherlock snarls. John is startled by the sudden change in the air, tension suddenly choking the once jovial atmosphere.

"I'm just looking out for you."

"You left me."

"I had to. I went to college. You did too. Given it was several years after-"

"Leave me alone, Mycroft."

"I thought you learned from Redbeard." At these words, Sherlock seizes any movement, eyes icy as they glare at the man.

John clears his throat, glancing between both of them. "I'm guessing this is your brother."

The man speaks up, "Yes, Mycroft Holmes, elder Holmes brother. And you're John Watson."

John opens his mouth to ask how Mycroft knew his name when he's cut off, "Molly and you spoke very loudly, it was as if you wanted me to know your name."

Sherlock exhales in annoyance, bitterness tainting his tone. "Leave. Us. Alone."

Mycroft looks down at his brother, a fake mask of hurt on his face. It morphs into realization, and he moves to stand by Sherlock. "Oh, you're playing with him, aren't you? Another human to either impress or anger, another one to deduce down to the bones, stripping away the secrets and stories?" Mycroft's tone changes as he leans closer to Sherlock, speaking softly in his ear. "You know how it always ends, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock pushes away Mycroft with a grim face, lips set in a straight line. "Go."

Mycroft sighs, turning to leave. Over his shoulder, he calls, "Mummy and Daddy send their love, and hope you're doing okay with your 'problem'." The cafe door shuts with a ring, and the tension dissipates.

John turns to Sherlock, biting his lower lip. "So...Natural sibling rivalry?"

"Ha. Natural?" Sherlock grabs John's coffee, taking a sip without asking, seemingly unfazed. He hands it back, and John stares down at the lid, wondering if he should still drink it.

"So...Uh...Care to explain?" John asks, running a finger along the rim of the drink. The drops left there are caught by his finger and dragged along, around and around, spreading.

"Be more specific, I told you that yesterday."

"About everything. About who you are, because you're still a complete and utter stranger to me."

"Not a complete stranger." Sherlock objects, taking John's drink again.

"Okay then. Just, tell me who you are."

Sherlock's eyes lock onto John, and he clenches his jaw. "Sherlock Holmes. Second year of university, I find it completely useless and boring. Planning on being a consulting detective, the only one in the world. Yes, there's such a thing, I invented the job. Brother is Mycroft Holmes, you've just met him, lovely isn't he? Have two parents, lost a brother and a dog, I play the violin, and love the thrill of the chase. And I find that people fail to observe and use logic to understand the simplicity of the universe, instead choosing to fill their heads with utterly useless knowledge!"

Sherlock stands up quickly, his chair banging against the wall behind, and walks away. John sits there for a moment, wondering what he did wrong. He groans, hitting his head against the tabletop, his head pounding with the pain.

It's only a few moments after, when John has hit his head against the tabletop so many times he believes he might have given himself a concussion, the chair across from him is dragged forward. John lifts his head just enough so that he can see a smirking Sherlock holding out a new coffee to John. "Having fun there?"

"I hate you." John takes the drink, and in return, Sherlock takes John's other coffee, almost empty. He takes a sip, and John studies him, even more questions cluttering his mind.

"Just, one thing, Sherlock," John says, his gaze turning to the windows to avoid himself from embarassment, looking past the grey London skies and people milling about, "Am I just another person for you to deduce and play with?"

Sherlock is silent. John, after he's counted to sixty in his head and no answer was given, turns back to him, looking into Sherlock's eyes. It's then that he decides to answer.

"No."


	5. There's Always Something

"So, tell me. What do you know about me?" John asks. He doesn't allow himself to take a glance at Sherlock; he's too embarrassed now, so he settles on staring out the window. Raindrops are just starting to fall again, tapping against the glass.

"You still want to go through with this?"

"Well, what exactly is 'this'?" John says.

"Deductions. Getting to know each other. Me buying you coffee."

"This isn't a date." John clarifies, looking sternly at Sherlock.

Sherlock knits his eyebrows together, taking a sip of his coffee. "I didn't say this was a date."

"Yes, well. It seemed like you were implying that." John slips his his phone out of his pocket, checking the time before resting it on the table.

"I wasn't."

"Oh. Okay." John leans his head on his hand, sighing loudly. "So. Yesterday, you said you got everything you needed to know about me. Prove it."

Sherlock smirks, licking his lips. He pauses a moment, and John lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Well, I know yesterday I was a complete stranger to you who invaded your personal space and also basically watched you for a while just to gauge your reaction. When I told you to come to me, you followed orders, so you're obviously obedient, but no there's more. Because the fact that I was a complete stranger and you came to me tells me you were curious, and maybe even got a rush of adrenaline doing something you knew for sure you shouldn't have done. So, adrenaline junkie, curious, and obedient.

I also noticed whenever someone makes an assumption about your sexuality, you jump to deny them. A little too quick too. So either you're a homophobe, or your parents are, and you've grown used to denying it, and right now, I know you're thinking of saying it to me, but you can't because then you would be proving my point, so you're pursing your lips in frustration.

Looking at your hair and your clothes, I can see you care about keeping up appearances but you don't make too much of an effort. You also play sports, possibly rugby, because there's a light tan around your wrists and neckline, and I know that the rugby team practices outside whenever they get the chance, usually in the middle of the field, where the Sun beats down harshest. Otherwise, they train in the gym.

You have many friends, but you aren't popular, nor are you a wallflower. All your friends adore you, however, you only have one close friend, and even then, he doesn't know every single thing about you. I'd even go so far to say I know more than him.

Jumping back to me invading your personal space because I know you're dying to know about that little bit. Mydriasis, which is the medical term of dilated pupils. Either you just took drugs," At this, Sherlock pauses, stopping to clear his throat and take a sip of his coffee before carrying on, "You suffered an injury to your brain, you were staring at strong light for a while, or you were excited. Yesterday, we can rule out drugs and injury to the brain, but today," Sherlock gestures to John's eyes, leaning forward again, "We can rule out drugs and strong light. It's possible you have a concussion, but then again, hitting your head against the table repeatedly doesn't tend to give people concussions, so, just excited-"

"I'm not gay!" John interuppts, throwing himself back in the chair with a sigh. Sherlock scoffs, continuing his speech, "So. Now observing 'this'," Sherlock uses a hand to gesture to all of John, "You aren't a homophobe. If you were, you would have said some highly rude and unnecessary comments about it, but all you did was deny it. So, possibly your parents were homophobic, and didn't approve of that, so you learned at an early age to make sure people didn't assume that about you, even when they weren't making that assumption. So, defense mechanism, maybe even suggested by your brother, Harry, who is an alcoholic and whom you disapprove of, possibly because he walked out on his wife, Clara. Any questions?"

John stares at Sherlock for a few silent seconds, eyes wide. "Amazing."

He can see Sherlock's lips twitch at the corners, and John turns back to the window. "You got something wrong though."

Sherlock groans, scrubbing his face wuth his hands. "Oh, there's _always_ something. What did I miss?"

"Harry is short for Harriet. My sister." John smirks, and Sherlock groans again, before straightening up in a flash. "Oh!"

"Uh...Oh? What?"

"Your sister is gay, and your parents disapprove of her, so you were bestowed with the task of being the 'perfect child'. So you go to Uni, keep up your grades, and occasionally show off a new girlfriend to your parents for their approval. What they don't know is, you break up with the girl a few days later, or whenever you get a chance, in a subtle way that won't ruin your reputation, or hurt her feelings."

John takes a sip of his coffee, barely able to register the sweet taste in his mouth as he tries to think of a response. Instead, he gets a question, "How do you know that?"

Sherlock forms a steeple with his fingers again, his elbows on their table. "Your phone has been lighting up with a string of texts from a girl named 'Jeanette', who ends all of her texts with either a kiss, or a smiley face, and they all keep asking you if you want to hang out, or get back together again, or do that 'thing' she-"

"Okay okay okay okay, Sherlock. Please stop." John cuts him off with a hand over his mouth. He glances down at his phone, and does indeed see it constantly light up with texts from Jeanette. A new one pings in-

 _Listen, John, I'm sorry for whatever I did, but don't punish youself by spending time with that freak, Sherlock Holmes. Just come across the street and we can find a quiet place, just you and me :)_

John shuts off his phone then, but when he looks up to Sherlock's eyes, he can tell he's already seen it.

"It's okay John. I already know what people say." Sherlock slides him a slip of paper with a string of numbers scribbled on it. "You can text me sometime, if you'd like to meet up again."

With that, Sherlock walks out of the cafe.

John thumps his head against the table.

 **A/N- I should probably mention, no, I have never been to college (yet) and I don't live in England. (I plan to, when I'm older)**

 **Thank you to those who've read or reviewed/followed/favourited this story, you're awesome!**


	6. Bitter Truths

**A/N- Warning for this chapter- A bit of homophobic slurs, John's mother being kind of a jerk, and John taking command...Taking a bit if a detour from any coffee shops to just focusing on John.**

John opens the door to his flat, and is able to clearly hear shouts and crying from deeper within. He shuts the door again, the sounds muffled, sighing as he braces himself for the unknown horrors his sister has most likely created. God knows, he couldn't have _one day_ where everything went smoothly for once.

It wasn't too bad today, in all honesty. His rugby friends (They weren't his friends by John's choice, they were his friends because they were his rugby teammates, and they practically followed him around the campus, and, at times, off) didn't give him total hell for talking to Sherlock. (After John had gone straight out with it and broke it off with Jeanette, she had proceeded to tell everyone she knew that John had been talking over coffee with Sherlock Holmes. A few had told him that if he wanted to kill himself, there were less horrific ways. John had to resist punching them for not only claiming just talking to Sherlock was like death, but that they were suggesting other ways for him to commit suicide, rather than _stopping_ it...Not that he was thinking about it)

A few times, John spotted Sherlock's tall figure strolling around the campus. Molly and another boy with silver hair were usually by his side, talking and smiling. Not for the first time, he wanted to go talk to them, hang out with them. But his teammates would point him in the opposite direction, and go bug some poor girl about going out with them.

John readies himself, and steps inside his flat. The yelling and crying continues, and John looks around at his parents, sister, and her girlfriend, Clara, seated on the puke green couch and opposite, on the rough wooden coffee table. Harriet is in tears, and Clara is glaring at John's parents, who glare back with an equal amount of hate shown in their expressions. They turn to him, and John licks his lips, unsure of what he should do, and what's happening.

"This is an intervention for your sister, John." His mother informs him, standing up from her seat and walking over. She wraps her bony fingers around his upper arm, guiding him to the only empty seat by her. When she lets him go, John rubs his arm, worried his mother just might've bruised his good arm. It would hurt like hell for rugby practice tomorrow, and the game in a week.

"Intervention...For what?" John glances at Harry. She bites her lower lip, shaking her head. He can see a sadness and fury in her eyes, and from them, he knows what it's about. "Because she's-"

"Choosing to be gay. It's unholy. It's satanic. And it is not right." His mother says, flashing him a sweet smile, as if waiting for him to agree. He stares, wondering if she's serious. He's briefly reminded of Sherlock and his words, _"Your parents are homophobic, and didn't approve of being anything other than straight, so you learned at an early age to make sure people didn't assume things about you..."_

He doesn't want to seem homophobic anymore. He doesn't want his sister to cry anymore because of her own parents. (At least, not because of her sexuality. Her drinking problem, maybe, because that needed to be stopped) He doesn't want to deal with this anymore.

"Your mother is right." John's father pipes up, and John stands back up, stepping away from them. No one seems to notice as they start to yell at each other again, and Harry bursts into a new wave of tears.

"Hey!" John says, glancing between them. They were like two armies at war, one of light, one of dark. The question was, what side was John going to be on.

 _I need to really get some sleep, if I'm starting to think like that..._

"HEY!" John shouts again at them. All eight eyes turn to him, wide in surprise. He has to admit, it's rather nice yelling commands and having people listen to him for once.

John turns to his parents, licking his lips again as he tries to formulate a perfect argument. "Why is the 'intervention'," He holds up his fingers in quotation marks, rolling his eyes as well, "Here in my flat? I have homework and a life I need to get back to."

"Well, you wouldn't come if you had to go somewhere farther than a mile. You don't have a car." His father leans forward to cast a glance at John, running a hand through silver hair.

"That's because you took my car and gave it to Harry after her DUI."

"She needed a car!"

"Oh, Jesus! Seriously? You're going to yell and scream at your daughter _not_ because she got in an accident with three other people while under the influence, but because she's gay? So what? It doesn't matter if she's gay or not, as long as she loves Clara and Clara loves her. As long as she's happy! Being gay isn't a choice."

His mother stands up, watching him with a look of disdain. "It's unnatural."

"It's. Human."

"Human?" His mother scoffs, shaking her head. "Every child deserves to be born into a two parent home, where a mother can cook and a father can teach them how to catch a ball."

John groans in frustration, and his mother takes a step back. "Are you even listening to yourself?! You need to realize that sexual preferences don't _matter!_ And two parent homes with a proper mother and father?! Most children are born into homes where there's only one parent, or where it's two mothers! And they're fine! They don't need a father to teach them sports, anyone can do that! They don't need a mother to cook, a man can do that as well, anyone can!" John pauses, massaging his temple with a hand. He counts to ten in his mind, taking deep breaths. "Get out."

"No, we are not done with-"

"Get. Out. Please." John looks up into his mother's eyes, and she glares at him. Behind them, his father stands up, clearing his throat so as if to clear the tension. "Come on, darling, let's leave."

His mother turns away, walking off. His father follows after her, and John can hear her say, purposely loud enough for everyone to hear, "I knew we should've gotten that abortion."

The door slams, and John stares after. Harry is still crying, but from joy or because they were shouting at each other, John doesn't know.

Clara stands up, gently bringing Harry to her feet as she wipes away the tears streaming down her cheeks. Harry throws her arms around him, sniveling. "John!"

He freezes, unused to this amount of affection from his sister. After a few seconds, and a look from Clara, John pats Harry's back, then gently pushes her away. Clara comes up to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, John."

Harry smiles at him, intertwining her fingers with Clara's. "How can I repay you?"

"Can I have my car back?"

"As long as I get access to it when I need it."

"As long as 'when you need it', isn't when you're drunk or anything. And maybe stay away from alcohol for a while."

"Deal with the car, no promises for the alcohol."

Clara winks at John. "I'll take care of her for you, Johnny Boy. Just take care of yourself."

...

John knows he's screwed up. Letting his mouth take control, and his mind be blinded by uncalled-for fury. Fury for what?

He doesn't know for sure. And he really hates it.

True, his parents had no right trying to change Harry, but he probably could've stated his argument in a much more polite way. A way that wouldn't piss of his parents and make them wonder why they ever paid the rent for his flat. Now, he might've just lost his home. Good thing he had his car back again, even though it stank of beer and lavender, which was definitely _not_ a good mix.

John sits down on the edge of his bed, listening to it creak under his weight. His laptop is open, resting on his pillow, the tab opened to some army ad he had accidentally clicked on. He shuts it, not even bothering to shut it down.

The dim desk light on the table by him illuminates his school bag, and in the light, the silver edge of his phone glints.

John leans over and grabs his phone, inspecting it. The edges are scraped and battered badly from numerous trips and drops. The screen is dusted with his fingerprints, and he wipes it clean using the cuff of his sleeve.

His phone lights up, catching John in it's incandescence.

Sherlock's number is already in his contacts list, in the favourites, in fact. He wasn't sure why, John hadn't even talked to Sherlock since the cafe incident. He just had never gotten around to texting him; At first, it was because he didn't want to, and had purposely called up some rugby teammates to distract him. Sherlock probably didn't even want John to talk to him. And John still couldn't just get what Mycroft had said out of his head.

 _"Another human to either impress or anger, another one to deduce down to the bones, stripping away the secrets and stories.."_

John had to admit, his first thought wasn't _'What the hell is with this guy?'_ , alhough that was the second one. His first thought had been, _'I'm not the first, then.'_

Now, he didn't want to talk to people about rugby, or girls, or sexualities. Seriously, it didn't matter. (At this point, a small voice that was crouching in the depths of his mind scoffed, and he knew why)

 _Hypocrite._

In a way, John was. Making a huge speech to his parents, protecting Harry and Clara, having spent his youth jumping to make sure people knew he wasn't gay. Like it was something bad.

John's attention snaps back to his phone, cold in his grip.

It only takes a few more seconds for John to decide to text Sherlock; What could possibly go wrong?

 _Hey, it's John from the coffee shop_

 _Sending..._

He flips open his laptop, watching as the army site pops back up. Suddenly, it seems pretty interesting...

His phone pings, and John glances at it.

 _Hello, John_

 _SH_


	7. Texts

**A/N- Sorry about this chapter, I was trying to get Sherlock's initials at the ends of his texts to be right under his messages, but nope! My kindle kept changing the stupid document around. So, sorry about that, it's just kind of attached at the end.**

John stares at the text for a moment, almost certain he's imagining it. It may have been because it was around ten thirty at night and most people were asleep, or it may have just been how quick the text message had come back to him.

 _-Hey._

John types back, tossing it on his bed after with a tired sigh. He carries his laptop, setting it down on his lap. His phone pings again, and he takes a look.

 _-You already said that, John. -_ _SH_

 _-Am I not allowed to say hey again?_

 _-You are, you're just being ridiculously redundant by repeating yourself. You've already said hey, and if you had taken a moment to think, you could've asked a question of my whereabouts or my current situation, which would have effectively moved this tedious conversation along. But no, we're talking about your repeated messages. For the sake of future conversations, John, please remember this. -S_ _H_

He smirks once he reads Sherlock's text. He has to admit, he expected a bit more from Sherlock, maybe even a whole lecture on 'proper texting etiquette', if there was such a thing. But...

 _\- Well, John, are you going to continue this conversation, or have you decided that you would rather text Jeanette on that special 'thing' you two do? -_ _SH_

Okay, John didn't expect _that._

 _\- I almost forgot I'm talking to a guy who knows basically everything about me._

 _\- How do you 'almost forget' something, John? -_ _SH_

 _\- Shut up it's just a saying._

 _\- Quite an odd saying. 'Almost forget'? It's like saying you're 'almost alive'. -_ _SH_

 _\- I don't know how it's like that._

 _\- Of course you don't, John. You don't know, but I do. -_ _SH_

 _\- Okay, no need to be a self-conceded dick, Sherlock._

John returns his attention to his laptop, the bottom starting to get uncomfortably warm on his lap. He scrolls down the website, eyes skimming along the words and different articles, photographs of different recruits and the living areas. It's a few more minutes before Sherlock replies back.

 _\- Sorry. -_ _SH_

It's unexpected, and when John reads it, he's thrown off. He never expected Sherlock would be one to apologize, even if it wasn't face to face. Suddenly, he feels guilty for having called him self- conceded.

 _\- No, it's okay. I'm sorry._

 _\- Why are you apologizing? -_ _SH_

 _\- Because I am. :)_

John stares at the screen, blinking. He isn't sure why he sent a smiley face, or why he didn't just say he felt guilty. Or why he feels strangely calm now, talking to Sherlock.

 _\- There's an ulterior reason than 'you just am.' -_ _SH_

 _\- Isn't there always?_

John returns his attention back to his laptop, moving it to the side after he finally registers the heat burning him through his clothes. He moves the mouse, the screen lighting up, and he puts his phone down for a moment to actually look at the army website.

He clicks on a tab marked 'Join as a soldier', watching as the tab changes into a different one, more information popping up. He reads it, unconsciously picking up his phone when it pings again, holding it as his eyes skim the words.

 _As a soldier, you'll do a vital job, making sure the Army operates smoothly and effectively, at home and overseas._

 _It takes lots of different trades to run the Army, there are many jobs to choose from, all with training of the highest standard. Your hard work will be rewarded, because to us, you're more than an employee - you're a valued member of the Army family._

John scoffs at that, trying to imagine being in a family that valued him. Sure, Harry did that- Mostly because she used him a lot for his car and the small amount of money he got paid from his job- but never truly valued. His phone pings again, and he shuts his laptop so it doesn't overheat, looking at the messages.

 _\- Sounds like you've been in that type of situation. -_ _SH_

 _\- May I ask about it, or is it too delicate of a matter to touch upon? -_ _SH_

 _\- You talk weird over the know that?_

 _\- Of course I know that. At least I'm spelling the words correctly. I'm better than most adolescents. Not saying 'you' as 'u', or overusing 'lol'. You know you've failed when someone sends you 'lol', because no one actually laughs out loud. It's just something to say when you've run out of options of how to move the conversation along. -_ _SH_

John smirks, proud of himself for the next message.

 _\- Lol._

 _\- Oh, I hate you John Watson. -_ _SH_

He laughs, putting down the phone, opening the computer again, and clicking on 'Get Started'. An online application filled with questions pops up, and he starts to type in the answers, muttering them under his breath as he goes along. "... Date of birth... Name..."

 _\- You need to sleep. -_ _SH_

"...Gender... Phone..." John glances down at it, swiping the lock screen to open it up again to messages. He takes a moment to stare at it, unsure of how to respond. Fortunately, Sherlock sends another text before he can.

 _\- It's getting to be eleven at night, and you have a 'surprise' test in Psych. Anderson thinks he'll have the upper hand on most of his students. He's an idiot. -_ _SH_

 _\- How do you know that?_

 _\- That he's an idiot? Pretty simple, obviously. He tends to make mistakes when speaking, and he also tends to be repetitive in his teachings. Taught us the same lesson on different states of conciousness three times, the imbecile. Don't worry, the test tomorrow will be review for you, and maybe a few other average minded people. -_ _SH_

 _\- You're lovely, you know that?_

 _\- I'm flattered, John. -_ _SH_

 _\- Please don't be._

 _\- Shut up and go to bed. You'll fall asleep in class if you stay up talking to me. -_ _SH_

 _\- Never knew you cared about me._

 _\- Stop talking and go to sleep. And the next time in the future, if you ever see me on the campus with two other people, instead of creepily staring at us from your posse of rugby jerks, come over. You're scaring Molly and Graham... Or Gertrude, whatever his name is. Lestrade. You're scaring them. -_ _SH_

 _\- Okay, I will. Sorry about scaring them... How do you not know your friend's name?_

John stares at his laptop screen. The application is filled out now, and he's staring at the 'Submit' button. Should he do it? Why was he doing it, in fact? Just because he might lose his flat? That was a petty reason, in all honesty.

 _\- I don't have friends. I just have one._

 _SH_

John has to ponder on that, wondering if Sherlock means him, or Molly, or the guy who's name he couldn't remember. Probably not him, and John found it hard to believe Sherlock considered him a friend, since they had only known each other for a few days, so it was most likely Molly he was talking about...

 _-See you at the coffee shop at four, John. Good night. -_ _SH_

He smiles. And he doesn't know why.

 _\- Good night Sherlock._

John presses the 'Submit' button, taking a deep breath and shutting down his laptop.

 _\- And thank you._


	8. Of Raindrops and Jam Kittens

The next day, John slumps in the driver seat of his car. His clothes, mainly his rugby jacket he had decided to wear that day because the weather had _seemed_ alright, was soaked, clinging to his skin. The sky that morning had betrayed him by showing him clear skies, only to become overcast as the day progressed. Sure, he spent most of the day sitting in class, staring blankly at the professor in the front, pretending to scribble down notes, but it was hell getting out to his car. Which, he had parked at the end of the student parking lot. Sometimes John really hated himself.

He sighs, peeling off his jacket and laying it across the passenger seat, blasting the heater on its highest setting in a vain attempt of warming up. The nauseating stench of alcohol and lavender choke the air, and John huffs out in annoyance towards his sister.

John lays his chin atop of the steering wheel, feeling the horn brush against the grey fabric of his clingy shirt. He watches the rainfall dance down, smacking against his windshield. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, which earns him another hearty intake of Harry's lingering mess, but at this point he doesn't care.

It takes him a moment to remember he's supposed to meet Sherlock at the cafe on Baker Street, and an even longer moment for him to try and figure out why he should go. When he comes up with no answer, mostly because his attention wanders back to the raindrops splattering in front of him, he sits upright, stretching. By now, the front of his shirt has grown somewhat dry, or at least it isn't clinging to him anymore.

John drives to the coffee shop, listening to the radio just to fill the silence of the car, _Staying Alive_ by The Bee Gees drifting through his speakers. The upbeat tune seems to brighten the day, and by the time John has parked the car, he's humming the song to himself.

He's surprised, and in all honesty pleased, to see Sherlock's lanky figure seated in their usual (Well, usual as in they've sat there only twice) place, the table already cluttered.

The bell above the door rings, and warm air hugs John when he enters the cafe. He sighs, inhaling the scent of warm pastries and coffee, and trudges over to Sherlock, taking the seat opposite of him. "Didn't see you on campus today."

"Well hello to you too, John Watson." Sherlock looks up at John with gleaming blue eyes, a smile playing on the edge of his lips, before his gaze drops back down to the book in his hand. "You were looking for me?"

"Yes. How long have you been waiting here for me?"

"Not long. Also, I skipped class today, had to do something." Sherlock shuts his book with a thump, setting it down on the table. He leans forward on the table, his fingers forming a steeple under his chin. "You're wet."

John glances down at his body, and sure enough, his clothes are soaked again, his shirt clinging to his chest. He peels it away from his chest, embarassed, and shakes it out a little. All he succeeds in doing is stretching out the material, which hangs just below his collarbone when he's done.

Sherlock, clearly amused with this spectacle, stands up, whips off his coat in a flourish, and wraps it around John's shoulders before sitting back down with a faint sigh. "Better?"

John is frozen in surprise for a moment, before he bobs his head once in answer. The collar of Sherlock's coat brushes against his cheeks, and he flushes, revelling in the warmth and sweet scent of brisk mint that in confined in the fabric. He hugs the coat closer, which makes Sherlock chuckle lightly at him. "You're pupils are dilated again."

"Yeah, well, I just saw a beautiful goddess outside made of raindrops and jam kittens dancing in the sky. I fell in love with her and she was shining so bright with glee it hurt my eyes."

Sherlock blinks, leaning back in his chair. Under the table, John can feel the tipsof his shoes brush against his feet. "What does _any_ of that have to do with each other?"

"No idea."

"So, wait, was the falling for the goddess of raindrops and jam kittens or the shining bright with glee and hurting your eyes the cause of your pupils?"

"It was just a-"

"No, _now_ we are going to talk about this. I'm curious, John, tell me." Sherlock smiles, crossing his arms. John sighs, sinking further into the coat, wishing he could disappear. This, however, only widens the other boy's grin. "Either you're in love with my coat- or the goddess- or you're trying to will yourself from existence and the universe is ignoring you."

"Shut up." John says, voice muffled. Sherlock chuckles again, pushing a coffee towards him. "Take it, I already had one."

"You bought it for me?"

"Yes, now come on!" Sherlock stands up, his chair sliding back with a slight screech against the floors. He starts to walk away, and John twists his body to look at him, confused. "What? Where we going?"

"Out!"

"We are out already, can't we stay here?"

Sherlock turns around, one palm pressed against the exit, a sigh escaping his lips. "Shut up John and walk with me."

His hesitation must be visible, because Sherlock marches over and grabs John's hand, pulling him up from his chair with a huff. Sherlock's coat slips to the floor, and John wrangles out of the other boy's grasp to pick it back up, sticking his arms through the sleeves to properly wear it. It's too big for John, the fabric falling past his fingers and brushing against the floor even when John is standing up, and Sherlock laughs at this sight, which of course earns him a glare from John. "What are you giggling about?"

"You're so short." Sherlock answers, his eyes trailing up and down John, punctuated by another chuckle. He nods his head to the door, taking a single step in the same direction. "Come on."

"What about your stuff?"

Another annoyed sigh, followed by a loud shout. "GRAHAM!"

There's a scuffling from behind the counter, the sound of something plastic dropping and clattering to the ground with a soft curse followed. A young boy with silver hair and a scrowl on his face peeks his head out of the door behind the counters, the same boy that John always sees with Sherlock on campus. "I told you, my name is _Greg. Greg Lestrade._ Not Graham. Not Gertrude. Not George. G-R-E-G. Greg! How long have we known each other?!"

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "Yes yes, whatever Gibson, just look after my stuff while I'm out with John." He nods his head to John, and Lestrade glances at him. "How can you put up with him without punching him in the face, John?"

John scoffs, gaze flicking to Sherlocks. "It's hard work, but I'm getting better. It's easier once you tune him out." Lestrade laughs, scrowl disappearing from his face. From behind him, another voice that John recognizes as Molly's calls to them, "GREG! I NEED HELP WITH THE SOUFFLE! I MIGHT END UP BURNING DOWN THIS BUILDING!"

With a small wave and a flash of a smile, Lestrade disappears from their view, and Sherlock walks out of the coffee shop, throwing the door open wide enough for John to slip through before it shuts with a ring of the bell above.

The downpour has let up a bit, or at least enough that it doesn't immediately drench them. The awning above them deflects a bit of it, but the drops still hit their shoes and pants legs.

"Do you want your coat back?" John asks, already starting to take it off. Sherlock shakes his head, placing a hand on John's shoulder to stop him. "Keep it, you'll get wet."

"So will you."

Sherlock shrugs, stepping out from the awning. The raindrops cascade down on him, painting his white shirt, dotting him with dark splotches. They drop onto his porcelain skin, landing in his dark curls like stars in the night sky. His electric blue eyes land on John again, a smirk curving a corner of his rose-pink lips upwards. "Something catch your eye, John?"

John can feel heat rush to his cheeks, thankfully hidden by Sherlock's coat collar. He shames his head, and Sherlock turns away, the smirk dissipating into a straight line. His shirt is now completely see through, sticking to his chest, and John turns his gaze away embarassed.

"So, John, what exactly are 'jam kittens'?"

It isn't even a second after Sherlock has uttered those words into the rain before John is charging back into the warm atmosphere of the coffee shop, throwing himself down with something of a grunt and a groan in their spot.

Sherlock walks back in, laughter bubbling up from his mouth, which only makes John glare harder at the other boy. "We went outside just so you could ask me about _jam kittens?!"_

"Well I wanted to know what they were."

"Why?!"

"You said you saw a goddess made of raindrops and jam kittens; I was out there with raindrops on my skin, all I needed were jam kittens, whatever the hell those are."

John blinks, allowing himself to snuggle a little bit farther out of the warmth of Sherlock's coat. "You were trying to be a _goddess,_ which I literally made up out of the blue...?"

Sherlock nods, his fingers coming up to his lips again in a steeple. "Yes. Did it work?"

John says 'no', but his smile says, 'yes'.

 **A/N- (Watch out John, your bisexuality is showing! [That's okay, by the way])**

 **I literally just wrote this chapter because I wanted John to wear Sherlock's coat and Sherlock to stand in the rain in a white shirt. Also, I saw that sentence about the goddess on Tumblr and I couldn't stop laughing... Spooked my dog, anyway, you might be able to find a definition somewhere... Probably Urban Dictionary, that place is weird.**

 **Thanks for reading/ reviewing/ following/ favouriting, whatever!**


	9. Tipping Points

The stench of alcohol and vomit is the first thing that greets John back in his flat.

Flipping on the light by the door, he's presented with Harry lying on the couch, eyes closed and blonde hair tangled in a heap over her face.

"Wha- Harry?! How the _hell_ did you get in here?!"

She passes a hand over her face, pulling away her hair and sitting- or at least attempting to- upright. She blinks a few times, her eyes rimmed with red circles and bloodshot. "The door was open."

"I locked it when I went out for class this morning. I _know_ I locked the front door."

"... I might've picked the lock."

John heaves out a sigh, shutting the door and throwing down his bag, peeling off his (once again) wet rugby jacket. It falls to the shabby beige carpet flooring, and John stands over Harry, arms crossed. "What happened?"

Harry shakes her head, sniffling, and John sighs again, walking over to the small kitchen attached to the living room. (If that's what you called the tiny space filled with a single couch and a cheap coffee table)

He opens the cabinet closest to him, pulling out a hopefully clean cup and filling it with tap water. When it's filled halfway, he shuts off the tap and walks back over to Harry, hiccuping and sniffling. "Here."

Harry shakes her head, wiping her eyes. "No."

"For God's sake, Harry, just take it. If you're going to break into my flat at least accept the thing I'm giving you."

"I don't want your stupid water!" She slaps a hand at him, but he steps back before she hits him, instead knocking the cup away to the floor. It spills everywhere, and he surpresses the frustrated groan that has started to arise in his throat. "Wanna tell me what has you in this _lovely_ mood today, Harry?"

"Sarcasm isn't for you, little brother."

"And alcoholism isn't for you, sis."

"Piss off."

John rolls his eyes as he bends down to pick up the cup, a single crack running down it. Instead of fussing over it he slides it on the counter, planning to deal with it later. "Please tell me the acidic stench of throw up is just coming from you, and not from any area in my flat."

Harry scoffs, throwing herself back down on the couch, laying on her side. "Tough. Bathroom." She points toward the bathroom doorway with her chin, and John leans over to see it. In the shadows, however, he can't see anything, so he chooses just to take her word for it.

"Why are you here?" John asks, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His shirt clings to him, the material still stretched down to his collarbone, and suddenly self-conscious, he tries to lift it back up. Harry watches this with what seems to be a look of amusement on her face. "I needed the car."

"How did you get here?"

"Clara dropped me off."

"She couldn't drive you to wherever you needed to go so badly that you ended up breaking into my flat?"

Harry laughs, but it's a harsh, bitter sound. She pulls her knees up to her chin, laying down in the fetus position. "We had a fight and she's angry at me."

"What was the fight about?"

Another scoff, followed with a roll of her eyes. "Think, Johnny Boy. It's not that hard to guess, is it?"

"... Well... That's kinda your fault, isn't it? If you can't control your drinking, you-"

"You know what, Johnny Boy? Piss off."

"... You're the one in my flat."

Harry doesn't respond with a verbal response, instead leaning forward abruptly and proceeding to upchuck on the floor. John rushes over, grabbing the greasy strands of hair that hang low, and pulling them up over her head, still being careful to stand a good distance away from her mess.

After a few moments, once she's finished and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she leans back and looks at John. "I'm sorry, little brother."

John shrugs, lips pursed as he stares at the mess he'll have to clean up later.

"You looked happy when you came in."

"What?" His attention turns back to his sister, chewing her chapped lips. "When you came into your flat, you were smiling. And then you saw me, and you looked like normal, no smile, a practically blank face. What were you thinking about?"

John blinks, unsure of how to answer, before he shakes his head, holding out a hand to her. "Come on, you need to get cleaned up."

Harry lets him slip his arm around her shoulders and pull her off the couch, narrowly missing her puddle of vomit. "What made you happy, Johnny Boy?"

"Don't call me that." He starts to half drag her to the bathroom door, Harry not putting up a fight at all. "Then tell your big sis what made you happy."

 _Sherlock laughs at him, and John glares at him, arms crossed._

 _"Jam kittens!"_

 _"I will smack you, Sherlock, if you say that again."_

 _"Jam-"_

 _Before he can finish, John leans over and slaps Sherlock across the face before throwing himself back down in the chair. Sherlock seems not to be affected by this, instead smirking. "If you were mad at me, you could just leave."_

 _"Then you'll be satisfied that you annoyed me."_

 _Sherlock chuckles, chewing on his bottom lip. "That's one way of looking at it."_

 _"And, what's the other?"_

 _The other boy takes a deep breath, heaving a dramatic sigh as he takes John's coffee, taking a sip before sliding back to him. "You've grown careless since last I saw you."_

 _"No I hav-"_

 _"Why did you forget your jacket? It's clearly raining outside, there is no way you missed that fact, so you would have remembered to wear another layer over your thin shirt-"_

 _"And you noticed my shirt is thin."_

 _"Shut up John, I'm talking. Anyway, your hair is messy, more messy than it would've been if you had used product and been in the rain, so you most likely didn't do anything about your appearance when you woke up because the hair is one of the main things people care about in terms of their aesthetic. There are no pen or pencil marks on your left hand, which would have been there if you had written down any notes in your classes, because I know in at least one you would've written down something and it would have smudged under your skin. Even taking Anderson's idiotic test would have caused a smudge, so either you didn't take it, or he postponed it for something, most likely a hangover from spending a night with Donovan- frankly, they deserve each other. And I know you're left-handed because you use your left hand when drinking. Anyway, you've grown to be careless, or at least forgetful."_

 _"... Amazing..."_

 _John is met with a blush creeping along Sherlock's cheeks with a small grin._

"Nothing."

"You zoned out for a bit." Harry says. She leans a palm against the wall by the bathroom doorway, groaning. "Oh... I have a pounding headache..."

John detaches her hand and continues to drag her. "Well, that's what you get."

He flips on the dim light, relieved to see only the toilet has to be cleaned later. He carries her over, letting her sit down on the edge of the bathtub. John leans over, turning on the tap and letting the water run for a few moments. "I'll be right back, I'm going to get you some clothes, because frankly, the ones you have on stink."

John walks out, listening to Harry mumble something under her breath as he enters his small bedroom, his bed, desk, and clothes drawer the only furniture in it. The window looking out over the busy street is cracked open a little, letting in a few drops of rain and the scent of petrichor, casting a grey light in the already dreary bedroom.

He walks over to his clothes drawer, pulling it open and searching for a pair of old baggy gym shorts and an old shirt before returning back to the bathroom.

Harry is sitting in the water, now filled halfway, in her clothes, knees pulled up to her chin. Her eyes are closed, and she would look almost peaceful, if not for the red rims encircling her eyes, or the inhumane colour of her skin, or her cracked lips. Goes to show how much can change in the span of two days.

"Here." John sets down the toilet lid, then the clothes atop of that. "You're going to need to get out of your clothes and properly take a shower, and then change into these."

"Why?"

"Because you smell terrible and if you're staying in my flat for today you are going to clean yourself up. The towel is right there on the rack."

"Do you know what it's like?" Harry asks him, just as he turns his back on her. John turns back to her, confused. She continues, "Seeing disappointment on the face of someone you love everyday. Watching them try so hard for you, then give up. Having parents who ignore you, pretend you aren't theirs."

John, starting to get uncomfortable, shakes his head. Before he leaves, Harry continues speaking, "It hurts. But after thirty years, you get used to it."

"I don't-"

"It's good when you find something that makes you happy. I mean, there is no permanent state of happiness, because it isn't a permanent thing; it's ephemeral, a fleeting, exciting moment in an otherwise boring and simple life filled with a flurry of other draining emotions. Fury, depression, sadness."

"Uh... Aren't depression and sadness basically the same thing?"

Harry scoffs, pressing her lips into a thin white line. "No. Depression is the feeling of hopelessness, with other things mixed in; anxiety, insecurity, fear, and the constant thought of 'why'. I mean, there's more to it than people realize, but it's just passed off as something that can be easily fixed with a pat on the back and a smile, as if the words, 'Just be strong!' Can fix the crap inside of me." Harry pauses, lifting her chin and looking over at John. "I mean... I'm happy that you found something or someone that makes you happy."

John continues to stare at his sister, unsure of what to do now. Call _someone_ of course, probably not his parents considering the situation between them, and Clara was... He wasn't sure, but calling her would be the last resort.

"Please get out, Johnny Boy, I need to clean up."

John nods, licking his lips before focusing on Harry. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry smiles, but John, with her words pounding in his head, can clearly see how fake it is. And how similar it is to the one she gave him two days ago. "A bit pervy to ask me that while I'm in the tub." She nods her head to the doorway. "Go."

John, hesitant, nods and walks out. Instead of cleaning up Harry's mess by the sofa, which he probably should have done before it set into the carpet and would be harder to get out, sits down against the wall by the bathroom, the door still opening. He reaches into his jean's pocket, digging out his phone.

From the other room, he can hear a loud noise that sounds like a slap as Harry throws her soaking clothes onto the floor. It brings him a bit of comfort, for an unknown reason.

John scrolls through his phone contacts, debating who to call. After he's looked up and down the list five times, and no one seems to really be suitable enough to help, John sighs and clicks on Clara.

 _-Hello, John. -SH_

The message pops up, and immediately he clicks on it, forgetting his previous mission.

 _-Hey!_

 _-You seem happy. Or you incorrectly used that exclamation point. Did you think about my offer? -SH_

John smirks, chewing his lower lip.

 _Sherlock, shaking his head so as if to get rid of his blush, leans his elbows on the table between them. His fingers make a steeple, coming up to his lips, and John smirks at this fairly odd habit. "So, what's bothering you?"_

 _"Nothing."_

 _"You answered quickly."_

 _"No I didn't."_

 _"You did it again. Something obviously, or you wouldn't be like this." Sherlock reaches over and takes John's coffee out of his hands again, taking a sip before passing it back. John briefly considers if he should still drink it when Sherlock rolls his eyes, dropping his hands. "I don't have a contagious disease, as your friends would say."_

 _John shrugs, but still doesn't take a sip._

 _"What's wrong, John?"_

 _"Nothing."_

 _"Nothing means something."_

 _"Nothing usually means nothing, last time I checked."_

 _"Oh, just shut up and tell me."_

 _"Can't you deduce it from me?" John says, his tone a bit too sharp. Something that looks like hurt flashes across Sherlock's eyes, but John pushes that away when Sherlock returns to normal, leaning back in his chair. Still, he apologizes. "Sorry."_

 _"No, it's okay." Sherlock shrugs, and John copies the action, much to his own confusion. What was he shrugging about?_

 _"Will you tell me, or would you rather I deduce it from you?" Sherlock asks, crossing his arms. The action seems a bit odd done by Sherlock, his fingers wrapping around his elbows, his arms pressed tightly against his chest._

 _"Just... Family problems."_

 _"Alcoholic sister, or homophobic parents?"_

 _John laughs at that, the easy way Sherlock says it, so straightforward. This, however, only seems to confuse the boy, his eyebrows furrowing and a small crinkle above his nose appearing. John laughs again at this, and Sherlock purses his lips in concern as John calms down, shaking his head._

 _"Uh... What was that?"_

 _"Nothing, just... You said it so... easily... And as for your question, it was both."_

 _Sherlock nods, "Not a good mix. Not a far leap, but parents angry about daughter's sexual preferences?"_

 _"Yep. An_ intervention _."_

 _This makes Sherlock chuckle, "An intervention for the non-straights. What will the human race think of next? As if my faith in humanity could take any more of a pounding."_

 _"Non-straights? Couldn't you just say gay?"_

 _"Well, there's more than just homosexuals, there's bisexuals, transexuals, asexuals, and that's not all. Also, that's just sexual preferences, there's aromantics-"_

 _"Yeah yeah, okay okay, calm down, I got it."_

 _A pause in their conversation, as Sherlock takes the drink again and John's attention is drawn to the rain outside, practically pelting now. Sherlock's coat is still wrapped around John, and he snuggles into the blessed enveloped heat._

 _"I play the violin when I get bored, and I tend to not talk for days on end."_

 _"Wait, huh? What are you talking about, Sherlock?"_

 _"Well, potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."_

 _"Wait, when-"_

 _"It wasn't a far leap, sister caught in an 'intervention' by homophobic parents, either you just stood there and let it happen or you did something and stopped it. Then after that, you became careless, so your parents must've said something, or done something.." His fingers come back up in a steeple, and to avoid having to speak, John takes a sip of his drink, the liquid lukewarm as it runs down his throat. Then, after a moment, a gasp comes from Sherlock. "They were paying your rent for your flat, weren't they?"_

 _"How did you-"_

 _"You never seem to be busy. With school and work, your hours wouldn't be as flexible as they are. So, you obviously have no job, so no money to do anything, much less pay for a roof above your thick head."_

 _"... Thanks." Sherlock shrugs, but continues to speak, John a little bit irked now. "So your parents paid it for you, you keeping them happy so they wouldn't turn against you- oh, that's clever! Milking your parents, I like it!"_

 _"Uh... No-"_

 _"Shut up John, I'm right, aren't I?"_

 _"A little bit, yeah-"_

 _"Good." Sherlock stands up again, fixing his rumpled clothes. John stands as well, sliding off the coat and handing it back. Sherlock takes it with a smirk, and John rolls his eyes._

 _"Think about it John."_

 _With that, Sherlock leaves John standing alone in the coffee shop._

John clears his throat, leaning his head back against the wall. In the other room, he can hear the definite sound of Harry taking a shower, so that was good.

 _-Yes._

 _-Yes, what? -SH_

Jesus, did the guy expect a parade for him?

 _-Yes, I accept the offer._

He can practically see Sherlock smirking.

 _-Good. The address is 221B Baker Street. -SH_

 **A/N- I was going to continue this chapter, then I saw how long it had gotten, and I was like, 'Op, nope!' So, here's a 'cliffhanger'. (Not really)**


	10. Exposure

**(Not Important) A/N- Please tell me someone has a Tumblr account. Please tell me someone was stalking the RP Blogs, and was screaming when (SPOILER ALERT) John and Sherlock were fighting, confessed their love, then Lestrade got stabbed while with Sholto, then JohnLock happened and they live together now and they're literally flirting on their blogs and Irene Adler is cheering them on and David (Mary's ex) is so damn thirsty for her and apparently now the baby was NEVER John's because Mary cheated on him with David so John isn't the father, and Mycroft is so damn cold to everyone but Lestrade, and apparently Colonel Lyons from Baskerville loves Captain Sholto, and Ms. Hudson is basically shipped with everyone and is apparently more popular than Irene, in terms of... You know. That stuff... Please, someone tell me that, I am dying and that is pretty much the only reason why I wrote this chapter up and posted it when I should be working on my other stories, and I am dying. Also, Mary's blog just makes me hate her more, the characters are so perfectly portrayed! Anyway, I'll stop bugging you and give you the chapter.**

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock blinks, turning his attention away from his Mind Palace and to the professor standing staring from the front of room, Anderson. He glances from his face to the onloooking expressions of his (unfortunately) fellow peers, various expressions ranging from disgust to boredom to half-asleep with eyes wide open. Sherlock glances back to Anderson, resting his head on his fist. "Yes, sir?"

A light scoff comes from the man, and he leans his palms against his cluttered desk, nodding his head in the direction of the board. "Mr. Holmes, if you'd care to pay attention, you would have understood the question I asked you. For future reference, please do pay attention in this class, you may be intelligent _now,_ but it doesn't guarantee that you'll be some bigshot. You'll think of my advice when you're waiting tables at a run-down restaurant."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, tilting his head slightly to the right as he straightens up in his chair. Lestrade, who sits right by him, seems to immediately know what he's doing, and proceeds to try and stop him with a numerous amount of kicks to the shin, onces that Sherlock brushes off undeterred. Sherlock can hear Lestrade exhale sharply between his teeth as he drops his head into his hands as Sherlock drags his chair out, letting it squeal against the floors and gather everyone's attention again.

He stands up when he's ready, grabbing his bag and slinging it on as Anderson glares up at him. "Mr. Holmes, what are you doing?"

"If my intelligence doesn't matter for my future, then why should I waste my time in this boring class, especially when I already know this lesson- might I add, everyone knows this lesson, because this is the seventh time you taught it. Either you're just terrible at planning out the learning curriculum for this semester, or having Donovan scrub your floors yesterday night- judging by the state of her knees and the reek of your men's deodorant practically choking the air within a five feet radius of her- has completely disoriented you and you've decided to pass the day off by using your old notes to teach us again about carpal tunnels, because it's obvious that everyone who grows up to be a first grade english teacher will need to know about _that._ " Sherlock starts to walk to the front of the room, peers gaping at him as Anderson flusters under Sherlock's scrutiny. Sherlock has to feel some bit of pride at that, smiling inwardly as the silence chokes the air and no one dares to move except him. He gets all the way down to the door before Anderson speaks again. "Where do you think you're going, Mr. Holmes?"

"Out. Seeing as I don't need review on this, I'll just leave." Sherlock pauses, palm flat against the door, turning his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. "Why should I waste my time listening to you babble on about something I already know, if my intelligence is going to lead me to a restaurant waiting tables? Might as well take the chance and go do something more useful to me, so in the future I won't be forced to become a boring Anatomy professor cheating on his wife because he finds his life absolutely tedious." With that, he walks out, letting the door shut by itself.

Sherlock can't help but smile at that, walking through the hall into the courtyard, a few kids already starting to occupy the benches, tables, and the shade under the trees, bags and people splayed about. He had Break in a few minutes anyway, he'd be fine. Wasn't the first time he walked out of a classroom. He sighs. _Good times._

Sherlock walks over to a table under the shade of a blossoming tulip poplar and throws his bag down, sliding in the seat. It's his usual spot with Molly and Lestrade, so he'll just wait for them. Might as well, seeing as though they're usually the only ones whom Sherlock can tolerate, and who tolerate _him._ Well, besides John Watson.

 _John..._ Sherlock closes his eyes, bringing his hands up together up to his chin, diving back into his Mind Palace.

Various rooms filled with memories and things of use that could possibly come in handy sometime, knowledge of everyday life and things people usually passed by, looked at without a second glance. He strolls by a room marked with a brass nameplate, 'Molly', engraved in a flowing script. Followed by that is 'Brother Dear,' which is followed by 'Graham Lestrade', followed by 'Mummy, Father, and Redbeard'. He flinches when he passes that one.

At the end of the hall, on the door in the center, is a plate that says, 'John Watson'. He places a hand on the cool brass knob and turn it, opening the door and stepping inside.

Sherlock Holmes isn't sure what it is with John Watson, whether it be the rugby-playing-girl-player-goody-two-shoes mask he wore for everyone, or the troubled-child-with-family-problems-who-doesn't-act-like-the-real-him-around-everyone-except-possibly-Sherlock side, but... There's something to the boy that does... Something to Sherlock. His mind can focus clearly on a single problem or object when he wants to, instead of dealing with the endless stream of information running rampart through his brain. He became more controlled, and could work quicker. It was... Relaxing, in a way.

What the hell was happening to him?

A chime of laughter snaps Sherlock out of his reverie, his attention landing on Molly and Lestrade, both now sitting across from him chatting to themselves. They look at him, and smile, Molly leaning forward, "Did you seriously say all that to Mr. Anderson?"

Sherlock purses his lips and nods, and Molly breaks into laughter, Lestrade shaking his head with a smile. "You know, Anderson was fuming after you left, didn't speak for at least seven minutes. Then after, he just asked us if there was anything we needed to review again in case we didn't understand."

"I'm sure the first six times were more than enough for your tiny minds."

"... I'll try not to take offense to that."

"You can try."

Lestrade rolls his eyes, and Molly flicks her gaze between the two of them before looking down into her bag, pulling out her wallet. "I'm a bit hungry, do any of you want something?"

Lestrade shakes his head, thanking her, and Sherlock makes a sound in the back of her throat that Molly can only guess means no, so she nods and walks away, leaving the two boys alone at the table.

Lestrade straightens up, reaching into his bag and pulling out a packet. "You forgot your syllabus when you dramatically left Anderson's class." He passes it to Sherlock, who takes it and tosses it in his own bag without a single glance, nodding once in thanks. His eyes are turned just over Lestrade's shoulder, and trying to see what has his attention, Lestrade glances behind him.

A group of boys are laughing together, save for two, one who looks utterly confused, and one who stares blankly ahead with his hands tucked into his coat pockets. The other boys are nudging him, grins plastered on their faces. Lestrade turns back, arching an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Why are you looking at them?"

Sherlock blinks, his eyes focusing on Lestrade as he straightens up, waving a hand. "Nothing, nothing."

"Isn't that, that boy you went out with? John?"

"It wasn't a date."

"He was wearing your coat, you were drinking his coffee, and you both were blushing and grinning. How _wasn't_ it a date?"

"... It wasn't a date."

"Marriage, then, eh?" Lestrade smirks, and Sherlock rolls his eyes just as someone calls out to them, "Hey Sherlock! How do you know how someone's knees look after 'cleaning floors'!"

The group of boys break into laughter, a few of them hooting, and Sherlock rolls his eyes again as Molly sits back down, a brownie clutched in her small hands. "Uh... What do they mean?"

"The Anderson thing. Sherlock deduced him and his," Lestrade clears his throat, furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to think of a way to put it delicately, "Activities, last night, with Ms. Donovan."

Molly's eyes widen, and she very nearly drops her brownie. "Sherlock! You did that to the poor guy?!"

"He isn't a poor guy." Sherlock turns his gaze back to John and his group of hooting rugby friends, and their eyes meet across the courtyard, John pursing his lips. A moment later, when someone nudges John roughly in the ribs, then says something having to do with 'Sherlock', judging by the way the boy's mouth moves, John pushes the boy away. A different boy, the one who stood confused before, looks startled to John.

Sherlock drops his gaze, and Molly, chewing her brownie, covers her mouth as she speaks again, "Are you okay, Sherlock?"

"Of course I am."

"He's coming over to us."

"He is?!" Sherlock snaps his head up, and sure enough, John is walking over with the confused boy trailing behind him, the rugby boys staring agape at him. When John and the confused boy- Sherlock thinks his name is Mike- are by the table, John asks, "Can we sit with you guys?"

"Yes! Yes, you may." Sherlock says, making Molly jump at his excited and quick answer. Lestrade flashes him a smirk, and Sherlock rolls his eyes as John and Mike(?) sit down, John by Sherlock, Mike by Molly.

"Listen, I'm uh.. I'm sorry about my.. Those guys." John apologizes, running a hand through his hair, messing it up.

 _No product in hair this morning, despite my recent deduction, so doesn't seem to care anymore at this point, although it looks rather better than before. Seems to have a new toothbrush judging by the state of his lips- Uh, don't think about his lips- Damn it what the hell is happening to you?! He smells different, is he wearing cologne? Stop thinking about his smell, damn it. He's looking at you, he asked you a question, answer him- Oh, jacket is rather starchy, two days old at least, didn't bother cleaning it, just barely traces of bags under the eyes so sleeping better, seems to have lost two pounds_

Sherlock blinks, and John stares at him, waiting for an answer to a question Sherlock didn't even hear. After a moment, Lestrade clears his throat, standing up. "I'm starving. So, John, Mike. You guys hungry? What something?" He hitches a thumb over to the Campus Canteen, a line forming, where Molly once was. She opens her mouth to speak when Lestrade flashes her a glance, and she shuts it, realization passing across her face. She stands, crumpling her brownie wrapper in her hands. "Yeah, Mike, c'mon, let's go get food. You're hungry, right?" Mike nods, and smiles as he starts to walk off with the other two, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

"... Are you going to answer my question?" John asks, leaning his elbows against the table with a smile. Sherlock unconsciously mimics the movement, sighing as well. "I don't particularly remember the question."

"You were in your mind palace, right?" John asks, eyes sparkling. Sherlock's lips twotch upwards, but he surpresses the growing smile, instead swapping it for a questioning expression.

"Oh, Greg and Molly explained it to Mike and I while you weren't paying attention." John answers, turning his eyes to the rugby group, now talking amongst themselves, flashing occasional worried glances and glares to John and Sherlock.

"... Why did you come over to us? You'll surely get hell for it later on." Sherlock states, focusing on John and the air around them. Slightly warm and buzzing with student chatter and birdsong from the treetops, John's hair a mess of blonde ash, blue eyes electric with a spark of a mix of emotion, his lips forming what seems to be a tight smile. John opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cuts him off, "Don't do that."

"Don't do... what?"

"Don't wear a smile if you aren't happy. If you aren't happy, then don't smile. Don't fake anything around me, I'll see right through it. No need to worry."

John turns his head to Sherlock. Then smiles. And Sherlock knows this one is genuine, and he returns it.

John, satisfied and possibly even surprised at this response, looks straight again, a light chuckle coming from him. "So... The, um.." He clears his throat, licking his lips as he tries to think of the appropriate words to say, "Flat."

"221B Baker Street?"

John nods. "Isn't that the cafe though?"

"... There are flats above it. There are flats above that whole block."

John scrunches his face in confusion, and Sherlock bites back a laugh, "There are?"

"As ever do you see, but you do not observe, John."

A roll of his eyes is the response Sherlock gets. Then, after a beat, "Why would you let me stay at your place?"

Sherlock shrugs, looking to the figures of the other three, now coming back, at a rather slow pace, he notes. John sighs, disappointed at the answer he didn't get, and lays his head down on the table.

"... Are you okay, John?"

"Yeah." His eyes flick up to Sherlock's face, blinking and gazing at him for a moment. Sherlock can feel heat rush to his cheeks, and then, after a moment, he puts his arms on the table, dropping his head on them.

They're inches apart, their legs under the table just barely grazing, and Sherlock blinks, trying to will his mind to focus on something other than the boy by him. So he glances back to the trio walking to them, Lestrade sending him a thumbs-up. Which doesn't at all help Sherlock, so he hides his face in his arms, willing the blush in his cheeks to flee.

 _What the hell..._

"Are... Are you okay? What are you doing?"

"Nothing, shush."

"I-"

"Shut up John."

"You don't-"

"Jam kittens, John."

"I hate you."


	11. Mistakes

**A/N- Sorry about this chapter in advance, I just came back from a concert and I wanted to post something, because I haven't updated any of my stories in about three or four days and school starts on Wednesday. (Damn.)**

The rest of the day seemed to pass by slowly, each second, each minute, dragging by and boring the hell out of Sherlock. Figures, the more he looked forward to being free from school, the slower and stupider everything got.

He could've ditched the last few minutes of class, but it was organic chemistry, and he rather liked the class. The teacher wasn't a complete imbecile, so, Sherlock was able to tolerate it.

When the bell rings, he's the first one out of the door, despite having sat in the last bench in the farthest corner by the windows. As he slips out the door and into the hallway, he can hear his name mumbled underneath the breath of a peer, followed by echoing laughter of a few others. Instead of turning back around and sending them a clever retort, Sherlock continues his pace toward the library, his bag thumping against his thigh.

John is already waiting there, his head buried in a book, tapping a pencil against his cheek. His eyes are narrowed in concentration, and for a minute, Sherlock pauses in front of the bench where he sits, waiting for John to notice the presence above. When it becomes clear that he won't be acknowledging him any time soon, Sherlock sighs, checks out the book, then sighs again as he says, "The main character dies at the end and his son is given to a family of survivors."

John's head snaps up, mouth open, "Why did you spoil it?!"

"You weren't paying attention to me."

John smirks, standing up as he shuts the book with a thump, slipping the book into his bag. "Is the great Sherlock Holmes jealous of my book?"

"No, shut up." Sherlock turns away, and a smile breaks through as John rushes up to his side, both of them starting to stroll away from the library to Baker Street.

"Didn't you drive your car here?" Sherlock questions, glancing down at the shorter boy. John glances up for a second before returning his attention back on the pavement, still wet from the recent rainy days. "Oh, my sister took it."

"Your sister?"

"Well, her girlfriend Clara, and her. Clara is taking care of Harry. I had to call her up yesterday."

Sherlock nods once, adjusting his bag so it no longer hits his thigh, and he takes a deep breath, "What happened yesterday night, then?"

"I'd rather-"

"It's obviously something troubling, by the state of the bags under your eyes, the amount of cologne spritzed on you which can make anyone faint masking the scent of sick underneath, and the sluggish way you're moving today. Also explains why you put your head down on the table at break, because you wanted sleep, so yesterday night you stayed up with your sister, bothered by something she said or something she did. Now, what was it?"

"...Have you been sniffing me enough that you can tell my normal scent from cologne?"

"...Shut up John, just answer the question." A pause, in which John stops walking and glares at Sherlock, and Sherlock stops to turn and look at him. "Please."

John resumes walking alongside him, but a bigger distance away. "Why do you care?"

"Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" Sherlock bites his tongue as soon as the words slip out, and John in turn flashes him a questioning expression, but doesn't push for an answer as he says, "Just, my sister said something about depression, and her being..." He trails off there, John's pace slowing down as his eyes burn into the grey pavement. Sherlock slows as well, adjusting his bag again. "Her being...?"

John shakes his head, then speeds past Sherlock. "Nothing."

Despite not finishing his answer, Sherlock doesn't push John, and they walk in a comfortable silence to the coffee shop, their arms occasionally brushing, glances occasionally thrown in each other's directions. Still, no one speaks, the thumping of their bags against their legs and the nearby honk of cars, the chatter of people by them, and the singing of birds filling their ears.

When they get to the cafe, Sherlock pushes open the door, holding it for John. He slips in, and Sherlock follows after, the door closing by itself as a woman walks out of the door behind the counter. "Ah, Sherlock! Back so soon? Molly is supposed to come in later today, I was wondering if you could take Greg's shift, he's a bit busy- Oh, who's your date?"

"Oh, Sherlock isn't my..." John's words fade as he glances up at Sherlock, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. "I'm... I'm John Watson."

The lady smiles, clasping her hands in front of her. "Oh, John! Nice to meet you! Are you the young boy who'll be sharing the flat with Sherlock?"

John looks to Sherlock for confirmation, and Sherlock nods, walking forward. "Yes, John needs a home, his parents might stop paying rent for his flat."

"Might?"

"Taking no chances." Sherlock brushes past Mrs Hudson, beckoning for John to follow after him. After a moment, in which Mrs Hudson gives John a smile that for some reason seems to be acknowledging something deeper than _'I'm happy for you two boys'_ , John follows after, huffing out a breath as he catches up with Sherlock in the back room.

It's a relatively tiny kitchen, but still seems to be efficient enough to be running a surviving coffee shop. Sherlock moves out of the room, through another door, and John runs after, not having more time to look over the details of the kitchen other than the wooden floors and the flower wallpaper covering the walls.

Through the door is a set of stairs that turn halfway up before stopping at another door, which Sherlock is already opening by the time John is caught up.

Inside is a relatively nice place, even if a bit cluttered. Sherlock looks down at John, watching him take it in. After a moment, he says, "So?"

"It's nice."

"There's a spare bedroom in the floor above, you can take that one, if you'd like!" Mrs Hudson says, appearing at the doorway. John turns his head to look at her, pursing his lips. "Uh, yes. Yes please, I'll take it."

She winks, walking away, and John turns back to Sherlock with a confused expression. "She's... Nice."

"Ah, yes. She is. Helped her out when her husband got sentenced to death in Florida. Gave me a deal on this flat."

"Sorry," John steps forward so he can see Sherlock's whole face in the sunlight streaming through the open windows, "You stopped her husband from being executed?"

"No. I ensured it." Sherlock walks away, dropping his bag on the floor before hopping onto a leather black chair, sitting with his legs pulled up by his chest. John awkwardly stands in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. After a moment, Sherlock sighs, nodding to the chair opposite of him. "If you wanted an invitation, here it is. Sit down."

John obeys, slipping his bag to his feet.

"So, you have questions."

John sucks in a deep breath, letting it go in a noisy huff. "Yes. Yes I do."

"Fire away then."

They stare at each other in silence, Sherlock's gaze pointed, John's hesitant. Then, "Why are you sitting like that?"

The other boy chuckles, moving his position so he's sitting like normal, feet on the ground. "You like asking the least unimportant questions first, it seems."

"Is that a skull on the mantelpiece?"

"Not important." Sherlock says in a light sing-song voicd, before it drops back to his low baritone one, "That's my friend. Well, I say friend." He shrugs.

"Okay, then... Did you really ensure someone's death?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"Not at all."

This makes Sherlock smile, and he forms another steeple under his chin as he leans forward. "Anything else?"

"How?"

"How did I make sure Mr. Hudson was execut-"

"Jesus, no! Well, in a way, yes. How.." John sighs frustrated as he tries to formulate a proper sentence, "I mean, how was your word even useful in a man's death?"

Sherlock smirks, smug as he falls back in his chair, his curls falling away from his face. "You already know what I can do." John nods in affirmation. "So it isn't hard to deduce the answer."

"No, it kind of still is. Not everyone is a genius."

"I'm not a genius."

John scoffs. "Well don't sell yourself short, Sherlock. You can tell someone's whole life story just by a glance. When I look at someone, I just see some stranger."

Sherlock shrugs, and John wonders if there really is a blush blooming on his face, or if it's just a trick of the light, or rather, the lack there of.

His thoughts are broken when Sherlock jumps from his chair, standing by the window before John can react. "Come here." He does.

"Look down at the street. People walk by oblivious to the flats above the shops, like you once were. Everyone, except of course, the people living in them. Now look across the street, on the pavement in front of the bakery, the same one your girlfriend was at on the same day after we met."

"Ex-girlfriend, if you didn't know." John says, moving to stand by Sherlock. The other boy nods once, seeming to carefully take in this information before continuing, "That woman there, no older than twenty five, is debating whether or not to break it off with her boyfriend because she's found someone else."

"...How do you know that?"

"Simple. You can see her hesitancy on going up in the flat by the worried way she glances up at the windows, and then down at the window of the bakery, most likely because her boyfriend's father owns the bakery- That's the case with everyone who lives on this block with a store on the first floor, I'm an exception because Mrs Hudson had no need for three bedrooms and she owed me. She's holding the pendant around her neck, a gift from her other love, easy to tell by the way she looks down at it with a slight smile, so it's something she often hides from others because no one knows who bought it, except her and she wouldn't want to answer any questions on who it's from, because her boyfriend could never buy her anything as expensive as that. Maybe a mother or sister, but a mother would buy something else other than a pendant and most sisters tend to go a different route with a nice scarf or a purse, sometimes a whole different route altogether. Otherwise, the woman would wear it freely, but no, she's scared. So, secret lover.

"About the boy, he's abusive towards her, but not in a way that would call attention on them. If you look, you can see the faint trace of make-up around her neck and wrist areas, and some bruises are hidden by her long sleeve shirt, her long dark hair, and her floor length skirt, an outfit which is an odd choice to wear seeing as it just rained and everything is only just starting to dry, the water wetting the hem of her skirt. The boy is unemployed, because he's twenty nine and living with his father- and I've seen him around a few times, which isn't cheating it's paying attention to the world around you, so if you were about to say that John, shut up- so it's a bigger reason why she would never wear the pendant in public or anywhere near him. _She_ supports _him-_ "

"Sherlock?" John asks, cutting him off.

"Yes?"

"Shut up. As illustrious as that was-"

"You used that word wrong, I believe you meant marvelous." John shoots Sherlock a pointed look at this, then continues, "As _marvelous_ as that was, I don't need to know every single detail."

"You asked me."

"That...I did. That was probably a mistake."

"Hm. Indeed."

They stare down at the woman in silence, watching as she takes out her phone and dials someone. She holds it to her ear, pushing away her hair and revealing a light purple bruise below her ear, and bites her lower lip as she waits for someone to pick up.

"Calling her love for reassurance or for back-up." Sherlock murmurs under his breath, pressing a palm up to the glass as he leans his forehead against it, watching. John can feel the back of their hands brush as he leans forward as well, watching as the woman breaks into a smile, her eyes closing. She says something into the phone, then after a moment of silently listening, she speaks again, what seems to be 'I love you' by the way her lips part, before shutting her phone and slipping it into her purse. She pauses, then stands up tall, takes a deep breath, before walking into the bakery.

"What she doesn't know," Sherlock says softly, "Is that the boy is currently out and only his father is in the bakery. This is better for her because the father understands her, and once he sees her and she explains everything, he'll know what she wanted to do and she'll be free. The father is the one who will help her."

A few moments after Sherlock's words, the woman comes back out, smiling through mascara-streaked tears. A burly man has an arm around her shoulders, a caring expression on his face. He drops his arm, then gently pats her arm and nudges her away, saying something. The woman nods, then walks off, a sleeve coming to wipe away her tears.

John stares in awe, not feeling the burn of Sherlock's eyes on him until the man goes back inside the bakery. He glances up, licking his lips. "That was...Remarkable. See? Genius. So you helped in the death of what I hope to be a guilty man, but what I don't understand is, you're still in university. How do you find the cases?"

Sherlock blinks, and John stares into his eyes, trying to pinpoint the exact colour of them, paying little mind to the short distance between them. "Mycroft- You remember my _lovely_ brother- is the British government. And Lestrade is an officer in training, when he isn't in class or helping Mrs Hudson out with the cafe."

"Your brother runs the government?"

"Well, he says he occupies a minor position, but it's a lie. His name opens doors. And pastry shops." Sherlock moves away, and John turns to watch him. "So, they consult you when they need help?"

"Which is all the time, yes. So," He flips his coat collar up, and John stares at him confused. "You're studying medical science-"

"How did you-"

"I saw your schedule, John. You tend to leave it out in plain view. Now, you're interested in the medical field, and I have a recent case I haven't dealt with yet..."

"And?"

Sherlock steps forward, coming into John's personal space, gazing down intently at the boy. "My, work I guess you could call it, involves violent deaths. You're training in the medical field to become a doctor or a surgeon, or even possibly a nurse, but a doctor suits you better so I'm going with that. Would you like to see some violent deaths?"

John blinks. _No, say thank you, what possible use could I be of to him, I would only just slow him down, say no, say thank you, say no and thank you-_

Despite his thoughts, John finds himself saying, "Oh God, yes."

 **A/N- I have absolutely no idea if any of my deductions makes sense, but I started doing it in real life, and I've been getting weird looks from people because I end up staring at them for more than twenty seconds trying to figure stuff out, and I'm scaring people. And I keep ranting in my author's notes, sorry! I'll stop! :P (Eventually)**

 **The story is going to become a bit more canon-compliant with a few (Only two) episodes, which I'll change up a bit of course, but they're still technically canon.**


	12. Flirts

**(Again, not very important) A/N- Sorry about the late update again! I've been trying to plan out the rest of the story so I know what needs to be added into each chapter and whatever. Also, I ended up spending days thinking of new fic ideas and forcing myself to not write them out until I finish this one. (Which is, in all honesty, going to take a long time) Also, I'm lazy. Sorry if this sucks. I don't like the way it turned out, but I felt bad I haven't updated in about three(?) weeks.**

Sherlock leans his elbows against the cafe counter, scrolling through the endless parade of messages Mycroft had spammed him with, counting how many there were rather than actually taking the time to read them. If it was urgent business, Mycroft could call him. And then come down and pick Sherlock up when he ignored his ringing phone.

"You alright?" John asks. Sherlock glances up, simultaneously shutting off his phone. He nods, pressing his lips together, and John nods once, tucking his hands into his jean pockets.

 _Product in hair, light spritz of cologne on him, got a new toothbrush by the state of his lips, not wearing a jumper or his rugby jacket so they must be in the wash, wearing clean clothes given as a gift long ago but never worn, hidden in the back of a drawer by the state of the creases, he however seems fairly okay with his outfit, and that jacket does bring out his eyes a bit more, obviously making an effort to look good for someone, most likely a girl, going out on a date-_

"What are you doing?" John asks, coming up to the counter and leaning over a bit, palms down. Sherlock lays his phone face down, resting his chin in his hands. "Nothing."

"I mean, what are you...doing?" John gestures to the scarlet apron tied loosely around Sherlock's waist.

"Oh. A bit obvious isn't it? Molly asked me to take her shift so she could study for a test. She owes me now, of course."

"So... You're a barista." John says with a smirk, leaning his elbows fully on the counter.

"And you're going out on a date." Sherlock remarks, lifting his phone back up and turning it on. He doesn't unlock the screen, however, choosing to just stare at the default lock-screen photo of the London skyline against a fire-streaked sky.

"Is it that obvious?" John asks with a sarcastic tone, letting out a loud sigh as he leans even closer. Sherlock nods, purposely avoiding any eye contact under the other boy's scrutiny. It proves to be incredibly difficult, especially with the short distance between them.

John leans back after a moment's silence, crossing his arms, and Sherlock finally allows himself to look up, setting down his phone again. "Are you packed up?"

"Well, yeah... I don't really have much to move, anyway."

"Mmmm... Sister?"

"She's... Doing okay. Clara is with her, scolded me to stop worrying and live a normal life. Then proceeded to slap me upside the head with a rolled up magazine when she saw the mess Harry left on the carpet that I had neglected to clean from days ago."

"Sounds like a caring person." Sherlock mutters, only half-listening to John, his attention back to the messages from Mycroft. A new one comes in, and this one Sherlock reads-

 _\- Already moving in together? Quite early, brother mine. What's the rush? -MH_

"Have you figured out about that message on your blog yesterday?" John asks, eyebrows coming down to furrow in worry. Sherlock shakes his head. "Could've been a prank from anyone on the case. Don't worry about it."

"There weren't a lot of people on the case, though. Only your police buddies and us."

 _Police sirens flash red and blue against the stone walls of buildings, the windows dark and void of any sign of life. The chatter of police and the victim's family in tears surrounds them as they walk slowly away from the crime scene._

 _"So... The ex-wife did it." John says with a relieved smile. Relieved for what, Sherlock can't exactly tell. Maybe because it was over._

 _"Obviously. Open and shut domestic murder-suicide case. Was really hoping for something better, but a murder-suicide will do okay. She could've done a much better job, though. You obviously wipe away all the evidence away, like the blood under the fingernails, and the soil left in the footprints. It's Murder 101! Scotland Yard didn't even need me for this one. Just shows how slow they're getting." Sherlock mutters, wrapping his coat around his body even tighter against the brisk night air._

 _John stares at him, a badly surpressed smile on his face, his cheeks pink from the cold air. "Did you just say Murder 101?"_

 _"...Shut up John." Sherlock pauses, glancing around at the scene before his attention falls back to the shorter boy. John shivers, wrapping his arms around himself, and in annoyance, Sherlock shrugs his jacket off and slips it over John's bare shoulders, beginning to walk away again. "Dinner?"_

 _John, now cocooned in the warmth of Sherlock's jacket, smiles as he catches up. "Starving."_

"Well, I'm gonna go." John hitches a thumb over his shoulder toward the cafe door, just as a boy walks in. Sherlock straightens up, his back cracking from the prolonged time spent hunched over on his phone, and John leaves the two of them alone in the shop, the bell above the door echoing with it's parting ring.

 _Young, still in university, most likely St. Barts seeing as it's the only university within miles, clean cut and well-off in terms of financial business-_

"Hello." The boy waves a hand to Sherlock, his shoulders raised to his ears coyyishly, the hint of an emerging grin on his lips. His voice is too low to be placed to his body, and for a second Sherlock is sure he had imagined it. The boy continues to stare back, hand dropping to his side, shoulders slowly drooping to their regular place. He clears his throat after another pregnant second passes, and Sherlock straightens up, alert.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asks, his voice a little sharp. After an expression of hurt passes the other boy's face, and Sherlock remembers he's supposed to be nice to customers (As Mrs Hudson had explained exasperated to him seventeen times, he had counted) he plasters on a smile and sets his phone down. "What would you like to drink? Maybe eat?"

 _Two pounds underweight, just a tad shorter than the average man, works out, hair is damaged by chlorine but still cared for-_

"Can I have a tall cinnamon latte, and your number?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that, but reaches out a hand and grabs a plastic cup, turning away to start making it. Behind him, the boy says with a hint of annoyance, "Shouldn't you ask me my name so you can write it on the cup?"

Sherlock continues mixing random ingredients together, paying little mind to actually putting some effort into the drink and not bothering to answer him. The boy clears his throat loudly, and when Sherlock turns back again, he's greeted with a small slip of paper with spidery scrawl scribbled across it in his face.

"My number." The boy says in answer as Sherlock takes it, glancing at it for a moment before slapping it down on the counter by his phone.

 _Has ezcema on hands, but taking medicine for it-_

Sherlock turns back to the drink, stirs it half-heartedly, caps it, and hands it to the boy, telling him the charge in a single breath.

The boy pays, handing over a ten and telling Sherlock to keep the tip, which of course immediately is put into the register for Mrs Hudson. Sherlock lifts his phone up to eye-level, skimming the new messages from Molly that had came in, his job done. The boy, however, doesn't move from his spot by the counter, the burning of his gaze on Sherlock growing hotter and hotter by the second.

"What now?" Sherlock asks moments later, his tone sharp. The boy, if hurt by this, doesn't show it this time as he takes a sip of his drink, clears his throat and wincing at the taste. (Which actually makes Sherlock proud) Even with the terrible drink in hand, and the rude barista, the boy stays, letting out a sigh. "I'm Carl Powers. And you are?"

"Annoyed."

Carl laughs at that, eyes lighting up. "What's your real name?"

"Go away please."

"I won't til I have your name."

"Leave."

"Name." Carl says again in a slight sing-song voice, stirring his latte with one hand. Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes, feeling the beginning of a migraine coming on. "Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you. Now please either sit down at a table, or leave, I have work to do."

Carl glances around at the empty chairs and tables, his eyes lingering on the scene as he speaks, "No one else is here. And everything seems to be in order."

"Yes. Now go away."

"You're the Sherlock Holmes bloke who has that blog, right? _The Science of Deduction?"_

Sherlock nods once, pursing his lips as his phone pings again with a message from John-

 _-Might be a while until I come back. A bit busy._

 _-Found a new Jeanette then? -SH_

 _-No._

The response comes back quick, and he's about to reply with something else when Carl speaks again, "I really like your blog. It was interesting. You're some kind of genius, aren't ya?"

"Some kind." Sherlock mutters under his breath as the cafe door opens with a ring, another boy sauntering in with a bored expression on his face.

"Seems a bit tedious though. Why identify 243 different types of tobacco ash?"

Sherlock bites back a snarky reply, turning his gaze to the new boy who smiles a tight smile at him. "What would you like?"

"Caramel mocha." He says, taking a lingering glance to Carl. Carl smiles at him, and the new boy returns it with a wink.

Sherlock turns away to prepare it, listening in on their conversation, "My name's Carl Powers."

"Jim. Nice to meet you. Never seen you around here before, new here?"

"Oh, I only came up for a swim meet. I'm a champion swimmer. I'm actually from Sussex." Carl says, flashing a toothy smile. Sherlock slides Jim his drink, saying aloud the charge and tossing the given change into the register. Thinking about it now, he was probably the reason why Mrs Hudson didn't get a lot of business. He was careless with the customers. Not like he was going to really do anything about it. It was they're fault for bothering him at all.

"Well, Carl. It was nice to meet you." Jim holds out his free hand, and Carl immediately takes a step back, palm held up. "Oh, no, sorry I-"

"He has eczema." Sherlock states, irritated at the pair's bickering and resistance to leaving the shop. "Easy to tell by the state of his shoelaces, which have flakes of skin on them. Also, you can see easily by his hands. Medication is doing wonders for you, isn't it, little Carl? Now please leave I'm busy at the moment."

"My, you really are a genius, aren't you?"

"I just stated the obvious, now please leav-"

"Did you solve the murder yesterday?" Carl interuppts, eyes twinkling with curiousity. The words hold in Sherlock in place, his eyes narrowing as he deduces Carl again with a single once-over. _No sign of a criminal. Just an attention-seeking jock who forgot to pull up his zipper._

"That case has not yet been released to the public. And yes, I did."

Carl nods his head once, deep in thought, before he takes another sip of his drink, grimacing at the taste but saying nothing about it. "What was it?"

"Murder-suicide. Open and shut domestic murder. How do you know about the case?" As they talk, Jim resides to a table by the window, the hint of a smile on his lips, hidden by his coffee cup. His eyes ghost over the world outside, dry and warming up from the recent onslaught of rain.

"Murder-suicide? Are you sure? Sounds quite boring. Could you have been wrong?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "I'm _never_ wrong. Answer my question."

"I know a guy." Carl shrugs, pursing his lips as he takes a backwards step away from the counter. He points a finger to the slip of paper with his number written down on it. "Call me, okay?"

He walks out of the shop, and Sherlock crumbles up the paper as soon as the sight of Carl is out of his view. Jim glances over at him, a phone now held in his hands. "Taking it you don't like him?"

Sherlock scoffs as he stretches an arm behind his back, untying the apron around his waist by pulling on a single loop. He drapes it over the counter, grabs his phone, and walks away up to his flat, typing out a new text message for John.

 _\- If you're not too busy with your new Jeanette, I have some news. -SH_

 _\- It's not a date._

 _-Whatever you say, John. -SH_

 _-I'm serious._

 _But what was the news? Please tell me you didn't do something stupid. Or more stupider than usual. Or something unusual. Or a mix of both._

 _-I think you were right about yesterday. Or partially. Just had an interesting 'chat' with a stranger who tried to flirt with me. -SH_

 _-Told ya :)_

 _And, what do you mean tried?_

 _-I'm still technically right._

 _And I mean 'tried', as in, 'failed'. -SH_

 _-Nope, I'm right. We can't both be right, we were on opposite sides._

 _And good :)_

 _-Yes we can, I'm still right, you're only partially. Maybe just the tiniest sliver. Maybeeven tinier than that. And stop sending those emoticons. You wouldn't use them in an essay, would you? -SH_

 _-Do my m3sages bothr u? :)_

 _-I can see your old teachers dropping their heads in shame at your disrespect for the English language. You're making them cry tears of sorrow. -SH_

 _-I'm not the worst there is. :)_

 _And no need to be such a drama queen._

 _-Go play with your Jeanette. -SH_

 _-IT'S NOT A DATE!_

 _-You're swimming in denial. You're drowning in it. Then again, you aren't that tall, so it won't take much. -SH_

 _-Aren't you supposed to be working?_

 _-Aren't you supposed to be on a date you claimed to be going on? -SH_

 _-I lied._

 _-Odd, where are you then? -SH_

 _-None of your business :)_

 _-But I'll see you later. Don't worry._

Sherlock falls into his black leather chair, tucking his phone away into a pocket. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he lets himself slip away into his Mind Palace.

 _"Check your website." John says in a flat voice. Sherlock holds the phone to his ear, flicking the bow for his violin through the air, listening to the sharp whistle as it slices through the empty space. "Why, what's wrong?"_

 _"Sherlock... Just- Just check it. Check the comments."_

 _"Did you really have to call me?" Sherlock inquires as he slips into his chair, typing in the password for his laptop. "I prefer texting. Gives me less of a headache when dealing with people. I don't have to hear they're stupidity and can handle it better written."_

 _"...Just... Just check it now Sherlock."_

 _He lets out a sigh, enlarging the minimized tab of his blog and refreshing the page, listening to John's even breaths on the other end, imagining the rise and fall of his chest._

 _It's the first thing Sherlock sees; A comment made exactly one hour ago, a few minutes after they had solved the case and before they had went out for chinese food._

 _ **\- Sherlock Holmes, the clever little boy playing scientist and detective. Have you caught the murderer yet?**_

 _"Sherlock?" John ask, "What does it mean?"_

 _"It's probably just some cop who was on the case trying to psych us out."_

 _"But it just says 'murder case'. And 'Have you caught the murder yet?' Seems pretty odd for a cop to be asking, especially since the suspect was the ex-wife. And we already got her."_

 _"Then an idiot cop. Don't worry about it."_

 _"But Sherlock-"_

 _"John, it's okay. Go to sleep." He ends the call, tucking his phone away and standing back up. The screen is still alight, the comment on his blog glaring at him._

 _Sherlock leans over and shuts it, before he turns back around to his violin and tunes the strings, listening to the notes resonating throughout the room._


	13. Author's Note

Hello everyone!

Due to the stress of school, friends, my dysfunctional family, and what is either depression or bipolar disorder, this story has been seemingly abandoned. However, I am on Spring Break right now, and I have time to write again!

While I do love this story, I am unsatisfied with the way my younger self has written it out, and therefore will be deleting this version and starting it over again. I hope to publish the first chapter (And possibly the second) by the time my break ends, and hopefully I'll have a few chapters to queue up for later times. This goes for most of my stories. (Both Doctor Who and Sherlock)

Have a nice day! (Sorry for the inconvenience!)


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